


You'll Never Go Down To the Gods Again

by feverbeats



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've survived being mad since I was eight years old, but <em>you</em>, you lose your mind a bit and you try to blow up the universe."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll Never Go Down To the Gods Again

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Width of a Circle" by David Bowie. Written as a Christmas fic for [](http://guinsky.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://guinsky.livejournal.com/)**guinsky**, about twenty-four hours before the first part of "The End of Time" aired, and therefore completely non-canon compliant. I've cleaned it up a bit and am posting it here.

  
At the end of time, it's the Master who finally stops the Doctor. It's only a temporary fix, but he stops him in the most human of ways. He stops him by holding out his hand, fingers splayed, an inch from the Doctor's chest. "Stop."

The Doctor, his time-drenched eyes wild and impossible, says, "I can't. Don't you see that?"

In the litany of things the Master fears, the Doctor being unable to stop him someday has always been the loudest. But he's never, never been afraid that he couldn't stop the Doctor. He steps forward, pressing his fingers against the Doctor's temples. The Doctor's skin is searing hot under his hands. "What's in there, Doctor?"

The Doctor pulls away, his eyes wide. "No. No, don't. I don't know." He shakes his head, his face twisting in agony.

"No?" the Master says. He can't afford to miss a beat, not now. They haven't got the _time_. "Does that scare you? Or is it that you know _exactly_ what's in there, and that's what's scaring you?"

The Doctor laughs, a small, ragged sound. "Always said you were a genius," he concedes.

"It doesn't take one to see you're a mess," the Master says. "You've been mad for a while now. You can't handle that. Leave it to the professionals. I've survived being mad since I was eight years old, but _you_, you lose your mind a bit and you try to blow up the universe." He gets an idea and fights the urge to giggle. He can't afford to be unbalanced now, or _everything_ will become unbalanced. He can't stop himself, though, from saying, "Please. Let me help you. Let me save you. _Let me forgive you_."

"Shut up," the Doctor says. "I think I'm a bit past that now."

The Master shrugs. "Well, we all knew it was just a matter of time."

"We? Hang on, who's 'we'?" the Doctor says, and the light in his eyes flickers.

The Master forces a laugh. Time, time, they're running out of time. He's just got to keep the Doctor distracted long enough for Donna to take care of things. "D'you want a list? It starts with the Time Lords and ends with the Daleks. They had a name for you, you know, the Daleks."

"I know," the Doctor says. Every word sounds like it's being dragged from him. "I only wanted . . . I'll use this power for good. You've got to believe that. I just want to fix things."

"I know," the Master whispers. "Oh, I know. Benevolent dictators are the worst sort. But you're starting to get scared that you can't fix it, aren't you? That you can't make it better after all."

The Doctor is nearly in tears now. "I've done everything right, Master." The Master ignores the brief flare of pleasure at hearing his name. "I don't kill anymore. Not unless they give me no choice."

"And that's mercy?" the Master steps closer again. "Or is it because you're afraid that once you start, you won't be able to stop? That you'll euthanize the entire universe?"

"Not like you," the Doctor says. "You never lied and said it was about mercy."

"No. I never lied. That's why you need me. But someday, Doctor, someday you'll _hurt_ me. You'll hurt me so badly that I'll beg for mercy. Only you'll have run out of mercy. And when that happens, you _won't_ forgive me. And I'll die, knowing that I've won." He's tried the sort of victory that involves dying, though, and it's really not worth it. In the end, perhaps winning isn't all it's cracked up to be.

"I wouldn't," the Doctor says. His eyes flare orange and red, like fires or sunsets or the whirlpools of gold on Catrigan Nova.

"Then again," the Master says, now very close to the Doctor and practically able to feel the heat emanating from him, "Maybe it won't be me. Maybe you'll end up snapping when you're fighting some race halfway across the universe. They'll get to witness my victory, and I won't know about it until later. It doesn't much matter. It's coming." He reaches out again, too quickly for the Doctor to stop him, and touches the Doctor's mind.

The Doctor rocks back on his feet, but the Master grabs his arm. "You've been scared of it for a long time, Doctor," he says. "You've been shoving everything down so deep that you're wound taut as a wire, so bloody careful, because one false move and everything around you is dust."

The Doctor's mind is an avalanche of sound, screaming and screaming incoherently into the blackness.

"But only in your head," the Master says slowly. "Come on, Doctor, let it out for me. One little scream, just for me?"

"I've heard you say that before," the Doctor says absently, his blinding bright eyes now half lidded.

The Master fights the shiver that crawls down his spine, half fear and half pleasure. "Yes. But you're different now. It's not safe to want you."

The Doctor nods ruefully. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so--"

"Then again," the Master says, shrugging, "I've never been very good at safe." And he dives all the way into the Doctor's mind, as deep as he can go.

There is fire there, but there's always been fire. There are old room full of furniture made from Earth oak, burning. There are planets colliding in what would be beautiful destruction if the Master didn't have a bloody job to do.

"Say my name," he whispers, stilling the Doctor with one hand.

There is a pause that stretches out over the rack of the seconds. Then, "Master." The Doctor gives a choked little laugh. "You're so loud."

"Yes," the Master whispers back, "That's sort of my signature." He shivers, buried deep in the Doctor's mind. Donna will be finished soon, but he can't think about her now. He can't tip the Doctor off. "Let me touch you."

"It's too much--" the Doctor starts.

But the Master knows. The Doctor's mind is too fragile and splintered now for that sort of contact, so the Master reaches out and starts undoing the Doctor's pants. It's simple and human and messy, and it's all the Master has left at his disposal. Everything around them smells like smoke.

As the Doctor's hips jerk forward, his cock in the Master's hand, his body is still so tense that the Master can feel it all over. Both of their skin tingles, and he fights the urge to let the boundaries between the two of them blur.

When the Doctor comes, the Master pulls out of his mind quickly, fighting a dirty joke that is totally incongruous under the circumstances. He can't afford to take on the flood of psychic energy.

When the Doctor collapses against him, body and mind spent, the Master thinks of Donna again and knows that if she managed it, he'll know in less than a minute. For now, he holds the Doctor up and says nothing.


End file.
